Kage dismissed the system window, but the afterimage of the sword's description remained burned into his mind. The [Blade of the Self-Styled King] felt heavy in his inventory, a ticking time bomb of public humiliation. 15% attack speed and 100% bonus to weapon damage were phenomenal for a level six character. The integrated taunt was an additional asset.
The cost, however, was having to broadcast a line of poetry so cringeworthy it could probably inflict a psychic damage-over-time effect on anyone within earshot.
He'd have to be careful. The trick would be to use the empowered strike only when absolutely necessary, or when there was enough ambient noise to hopefully obscure the audio component. It was a problem of resource management, only the resource was his own dignity.
He navigated the bustling streets of Oakhaven. The hour Anya had requested was nearly up.
The Miner's Bunkhouse was exactly what he expected: a long, rectangular building made of rough-hewn timber, smelling potently of sawdust, sweat, and cheap ale. It was functional, efficient, and devoid of any artistic flair whatsoever. Kage approved.
Inside, the main common room was spartan, lined with simple bunks. Most were empty, their occupants still toiling in the nearby quarries and mines.
He spotted Anya near one of the far bunks. She was carefully folding a small blanket and placing it into a leather satchel. Standing next to her, leaning on a wooden crutch but very much on his own two feet, was a Dwarf.
The Dwarf was a textbook example of his race, built like a fire hydrant made of granite and hair. A magnificent, intricately braided grey beard cascaded down his chest, tucked into a thick leather belt. His arms were corded with a lifetime of swinging a pickaxe. One of his legs was heavily wrapped in white bandages. The Dwarf was slowly, deliberately bending the knee, his face a mask of concentration.
Anya looked up as Kage approached, a warm, genuine smile lighting up her wrinkled face. "You're right on time."
The Dwarf stopped his exercise and turned his head. His eyes, dark and deep-set under a heavy brow, appraised Kage from head to toe. It was a look that weighed and measured a person's worth with the practiced ease of a man who could tell good ore from bad slag at a glance.
"So, you're the lad," the Dwarf rumbled, his voice like rocks grinding together. "Anya was just tellin' me. Scaled that goblin-infested pit for some moss."
Anya finished packing her bag and gestured from Kage to the Dwarf. "Kage, this is Herman. The stubbornest patient I've ever had."
Herman let out a short, barking laugh. "Stubborn is what keeps the rock from fallin' on your head, lass. You'd do well to learn it." He extended a hand toward Kage, a slab of calloused meat and thick fingers. Kage took it. The grip was crushing. "Herman Granitehand. I owe you a debt."
Kage gave a slight, formal nod. "The moss was for a quest."
Herman grunted, releasing his grip. "Quest or not, you did the deed. Anya's poultice worked a miracle." He stomped his bandaged foot on the wooden floor, a solid, reassuring thump. "Thought I was gonna lose the leg for sure. Would've been the end of my digging days."
There was raw gratitude in his voice that was impossible to fake. Kage had seen it before. It was the look of a player who just got saved from a full XP-debt death by a clutch heal. Only this wasn't a game to Herman.
For a sharp, painful second, the digital world of Crown of Destiny dissolved. Kage saw the Dwarf's bandaged leg, miraculously saved by a handful of glowing, virtual herbs, and his mind flashed to a sterile, white hospital room. He saw his mother, frail against the pillows, her own ailment a complex, terrifying monster that no magic poultice could fix. An enemy that couldn't be outsmarted, grinded down, or defeated with a perfectly timed parry. An enemy that only responded to money.
The feeling was a bitter acid in his throat. Here, he was a legend in the making, a Poet who could mend Dwarven machinery and command the battlefield. He could save a Dwarf's leg with a side quest. In the real world, he was just a son fighting a losing battle against a stack of invoices, his only weapon the dwindling numbers in a bank account.
The 8,000-dollar deadline felt like a debuff, ticking down in the corner of his vision.
He blinked, pushing the thought away. Emotion was a distraction from the objective. But the problem it represented—the urgent need for capital—was a reality that demanded a solution.
For a tempting moment, his mind considered the [Blade of the Self-Styled King]. It was a Rare item. Actually, the effects were probably better than a normal rare. On a server where most players were still celebrating their first Uncommon-grade, its value was astronomical. He could probably sell it to a top guild or a whale like Argent. A quick, clean transaction. An immediate infusion of capital that would bring him closer to buying his mother more time.
The Operator crushed the thought. Selling it would be a fool's bargain.
First, he analyzed the market value. The sword's current price was an obvious, temporary bubble. On a server where Unique items were practically nonexistent, selling now would be the definition of "selling high." A simple seller, focused on immediate profit, would cash out without a second thought.
But the Operator's second, more critical analysis was on its utility value. The sword was a unique piece of production machinery. It was the key to efficiently completing his next objective—the hunt for another, better Conceptual Material. Selling his best tool to fund a single, short-term payment was the definition of inefficiency.
Liquidating a key asset for a fraction of its potential long-term return was a strategically bankrupt move. The sword stayed in his inventory. The path forward was clear: use the flawed creation to forge a perfect one.
A system notification popped into view, a welcome splash of cold, hard data.
[Your actions have earned the respect of the Oakhaven Miners.]
[Reputation with 'Miner's Guild (Oakhaven)' has increased by +300.]
[You are now 'Respected' by the Miner's Guild.]
Good, Kage thought. Social capital. Discounts on repairs, ore, maybe even access to higher-tier crafting quests. Every advantage had to be exploited.
"Happy to see you're recovering," Kage said, his voice flat and practical. It was the only response his brain could offer.
Herman nodded, mistaking the bluntness for humble stoicism. "Aye. Now, what was this about a sword? Anya said you picked the old Dwarven blade from her private stash. An odd choice for a Poet."
This was his opening.
Kage met the Dwarf's gaze. He took the ring off his finger, letting it rest in the palm of his hand.
It was the simple, unadorned iron ring. Grom's Unyielding Signet.
He held it out. "I was hoping you could tell me about this."
The air in the room seemed to shift. Herman's gruff, friendly expression froze. His eyes, which had been regarding Kage with respect, now widened in disbelief. He took a half-step forward, his gaze locked on the ring. The crutch he was leaning on was forgotten.
"By the Forge-Father's beard…" he whispered, the sound barely audible. He reached out a trembling finger, not quite touching the iron, as if afraid it might be a mirage. "Grom's seal."
He looked up at Kage, his eyes burning with a sudden, fierce intensity. "Where did you get this?"
"From the Goblin War Chief," Kage answered.
Herman's face was a landscape of shock, awe, and a deep, ancient sadness. "So the stories were true. The little green bastards picked the bones of his camp." He shook his head slowly, a deep sigh rattling his broad chest. "Grom the Oathkeeper. Haven't heard that name spoken aloud in… fifty years?"
Old Anya watched the exchange, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Herman? What is it?"
The old Dwarf seemed to be in another time, another place. "It's a legend, lass. A cautionary tale we tell young beardlings when they get too greedy for gold and glory."
He sank down onto the edge of his bunk, his gaze still fixed on the ring in Kage's hand. "They say Grom was the most stubborn Dwarf to ever swing a pick. Came from the Iron Peaks with a charter from the King and a hand-picked crew of his most loyal kin. They weren't after gold or gems. They were looking for a new vein of true-iron, the best in the kingdom."
He paused, stroking his braided beard thoughtfully. "They delved deeper than anyone had before. Weeks went by. Then a single runner came back to Oakhaven, half-dead and raving. Said they'd found something… something incredible. Not iron. He called it 'the mountain's heart'."
Herman's voice dropped, taking on the hushed, reverent tone of a storyteller sharing a secret by a campfire. "But the runner also brought word of strife. Grom's second-in-command, a Dwarf named Vorlag, was a snake. A silver-tongued schemer who saw the discovery not as a gift for our people, but as a prize for himself. There was a dispute. An oath was broken."
Kage's quest log shimmered in his mind. An echo of a broken oath. This was it. The core of the story.
"The runner was sent to get reinforcements loyal to Grom," Herman continued, his face grim. "But he was too late. Before he could even assemble a party to go back, a 'convenient' cave-in sealed the entire new section of the mine. A collapse so total, so absolute, that Dwarven engineers declared it impossible to clear. Grom, his crew, the mountain's heart… all of it was lost. Vorlag claimed it was a tragic accident, that he was the sole survivor. He left Oakhaven a rich man, though no one knew where his fortune came from."
The pieces were slotting together perfectly. The vision of betrayal Kage had felt, the crumbling rocks, the stab of treachery—it all aligned with Herman's tale. His [Storyteller's Intuition] had given him the emotional summary; Herman was providing the narrative framework.
"Do you know where this sealed mine is?" Kage asked, cutting straight to the point.
Herman let out a weary chuckle. "Lad, if I knew that, I'd be the richest Dwarf in the kingdom. That knowledge was lost with the men who sealed it. The goblins only moved into the upper levels decades later. The true deeps… they're hidden behind Dwarven stonecraft that no goblin pickaxe could ever dream of scratching."
He looked up, a flicker of something—pity, perhaps—in his eyes. "It's a ghost story, lad. A fool's dream."
Kage felt a sliver of frustration. A dead end. He had the 'what', but not the 'where'. A quest without a map marker was a nightmare.
Herman seemed to sense his thoughts. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Most folk would tell you to give it up. But…" He paused, scratching at his beard. "There is one old fool who might know something. A codger who chases a legend's shadow."
"Who?" Kage pressed.
"They call him Mad Barnaby," Herman said, a touch of sadness in his tone. "Used to be a sharp lad, a surveyor's apprentice with a good eye for strata and fault lines. He was part of one of the last survey teams to map the upper mines before they were completely abandoned. Something happened to him down there. Never been right in the head since."
He gestured vaguely toward the town's edge. "Spends his days down by the stream now, siftin' through rocks and muttering to himself. Talking about 'stone-whispers' and 'the memory of the mountain.' Most folks just chuck him a copper and walk on by. Think he's cracked."
Kage's mind seized on the keywords. Surveyor's apprentice. Mapped the upper mines. Memory of the mountain. Kage heard the potential for raw, unfiltered data. An expert witness, overlooked and discarded by everyone.
This was exactly the kind of asymmetrical information advantage he thrived on.
"He talks of old legends," Herman finished, "Grom's story is one of his favorites. If anyone alive has a piece of that puzzle, it'd be him. But I'm warning you, lad. You'll get more nonsense than sense out of him."
Kage gave a curt nod, the next step in his plan already solidifying. He pocketed the iron ring. "Thank you, Herman. Your information has been valuable." He turned to Anya. "And thank you for the introduction."
Anya smiled. "Of course. Be careful, young man. Some stories are better left buried."
Kage was already turning to leave, his mind miles away. He had a new target. An unconventional, high-risk, high-reward information node.
Mad Barnaby. The man who sifted for ghosts by the stream.